I Choose Me

I can't believe I'm actually holding this award.

The weight of the crystal trophy in my hands feels surreal. Six years of struggling, six years of rejection, six years of people telling me my films were "too niche" or "too emotional." And now here I am, standing on this stage in front of five hundred people, being recognized as Best Independent Producer of the Year.

"Thank you," I say into the microphone, my voice steadier than I expected. "This award doesn't just belong to me. It belongs to every woman who's been told her story doesn't matter, who's been told to dream smaller, to want less."

The applause is warm. Real. I can see people in the audience nodding, some wiping their eyes.

"Six years ago, I thought my career was over before it really began. But sometimes the end of one story is just the beginning of another."

More applause. I catch sight of Elena in the third row, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. My agent, my friend, the woman who believed in me when no one else would.

I wrap up my speech and walk off stage, legs shaky with adrenaline.

"Iris!" Elena crashes into me with a hug that nearly knocks me over. "Oh my God, you did it! You actually did it!"

"I can't believe it either," I laugh, still clutching the award.

"Six years," she says, pulling back to look at me. "Six years of fighting for every single project, and you finally got the recognition you deserve."

A reporter from Entertainment Weekly approaches with a cameraman. "Iris, congratulations! Can we get a quick interview?"

I nod, still riding the high.

"What's next for you?" she asks. "Any new projects in development?"

"Actually, yes. I'm excited to announce that I'll be producing and starring in—"

"Miss Blackwell!" My assistant Jenna comes running toward us, her face pale, phone in her hand. "Miss Blackwell, you need to see this."

The reporter raises an eyebrow but keeps the camera rolling.

"What is it?" I ask, but Jenna just thrusts her phone at me.

The screen shows Twitter. A video is playing. The timestamp says it was posted twelve minutes ago, and it already has fifteen thousand retweets.

I recognize the location immediately. The private medical clinic in Malibu. Six years ago.

The security camera footage is grainy but clear enough. A woman walking toward the entrance, her hand resting protectively on her obviously pregnant belly.

The woman is me.

My blood turns to ice.

"Miss Blackwell," the reporter's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "Can you comment on this video that's currently trending on social media?"

More reporters are gathering now. I can hear the questions overlapping, getting louder.

"Is it true you had a secret pregnancy six years ago?"

"Who was the father?"

"Why did you hide it?"

My vision starts to tunnel. This can't be happening. Not tonight. Not when everything was finally going right.

"I..." I start to say, but my throat feels closed up.

And then I see him.

Damien Cross.

He's standing about twenty feet away, partially hidden behind a backdrop. He's wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair styled just right. At thirty-two, he's even more handsome than he was six years ago, if that's possible.

Our eyes meet across the chaos of reporters and cameras.

He looks like he's seen a ghost. His face has gone completely pale, and his mouth is slightly open in shock. But there's something else in his expression. Recognition. And maybe... fear?

The questions keep coming, but they sound muffled now, like I'm underwater.

"Miss Blackwell, was Damien Cross the father?"

"Mr. Cross, do you have any comment?"

"How long were you two together?"

I look down at the award in my hands. This beautiful, crystal trophy that represents everything I've worked for. Suddenly it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

Six years. Six years of building myself back up after he tore me down. Six years of proving I could succeed without him, without his family's connections, without anyone's help.

And now this.

"I don't have a child," I hear myself say. My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else.

But even as I say it, I'm still looking at Damien. Still seeing the guilt written all over his face. The same guilt that's been there since the night he chose to save someone else instead of me.

The reporters surge forward, but I'm already moving. I push through the crowd, clutching my award, ignoring the questions being shouted at me.

"Miss Blackwell, wait!"

"Just one more question!"

"Iris, please!"

I make it to the exit, my heart pounding so hard I think it might burst. The cool Los Angeles night air hits my face as I stumble outside.

Behind me, I can hear footsteps on the pavement.

I don't need to turn around to know who it is.